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Knoxville: Summer of 1915

Renée Fleming

It has become that time of evening
When people sit on their porches
Rocking gently and talking gently
And watching the street
And the standing up into their sphere
Of possession of the trees
Of birds' hung havens, hangars

People go by; things go by
A horse, drawing a buggy
Breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt
A loud auto; a quiet auto
People in pairs, not in a hurry
Scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body
Talking casually
The taste hovering over them of vanilla
Strawberry, pasteboard and starched milk
The image upon them of lovers and horsemen
Squared with clowns in hueless amber

A streetcar raising its iron moan
Stopping, belling and starting; stertorous
Rousing and raising again
Its iron increasing moan
And swimming its gold windows and straw seats
On past and past and past
The bleak spark crackling and cursing above it
Like a small malignant spirit
Set to dog its tracks
The iron whine rises on rising speed
Still risen, faints; halts
The faint stinging bell
Rises again, still fainter
Fainting, lifting lifts
Faints foregone: Forgotten

Now is the night one blue dew

Now is the night one blue dew
My father has drained
He has coiled the hose

Low on the length of lawns
A frailing of fire who breathes
Parents on porches: Rock and rock
From damp strings morning glories
Hang their ancient faces

The dry and exalted noise of the locusts
From all the air at once enchants my eardrums

On the rough wet grass of the back yard
My father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there
My mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt
And I too am lying there
They are not talking much
And the talk is quiet
Of nothing in particular
Of nothing in particular
Of nothing at all

The stars are wide and alive
They seem each like a smile of great sweetness
And they seem very near
All my people are larger bodies than mine
With voices gentle and meaningless
Like the voices of sleeping birds

One is an artist, he is living at home
One is a musician, she is living at home
One is my mother who is good to me
One is my father who is good to me
By some chance, here they are, all on this earth
And who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth
Lying, on quilts, on the grass
In a summer evening
Among the sounds of the night

May God bless my people
My uncle, my aunt, my mother
My good father
Oh, remember them kindly
In their time of trouble
And in the hour of their taking away

After a little I am taken in and put to bed
Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her
And those receive me, who quietly treat me
As one familiar and well-beloved in that home
But will not, oh, will not
Not now, not ever
But will not ever tell me who I am

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